


The Little Makers

by SableR



Series: Starling's Flight [8]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Epilogue, F/M, Fade Dreams, Friendship, Jaws of Hakkon, Light Angst, Post-Canon, Trespasser DLC spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-19 23:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4765718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SableR/pseuds/SableR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every ending is a beginning, and no story ever truly ends.  The wake of the Exalted Council brings new challenges for the former Inquisitor, faced alongside old friends.  A short series of vignettes featuring the artificers of the Inquisition: Three-Eyes, Dagna, Varric, and Lavellan.  Some Solas/F!Lavellan, set post-Trespasser so expect MAJOR SPOILERS for the Trespasser DLC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three-Eyes

It'd been only four days since Cassandra, Dorian, and Iron Bull found Clariel Lavellan unconscious in front of a sealed eluvian.  Four days since she'd disbanded the Inquisition.  Four days of whispering and staring, of furtive glances at the stump where the Anchor--and her hand--used to be.  But as soon as Three-Eyes arrived at Halamshiral, he kicked everyone out of her room, locked the door behind him, and immediately began unpacking his instruments.  
  
"This is a pleasant surprise," she said, looking up at him from her armchair by the fireplace.  
  
"Some things can't be done properly in a letter."  He carelessly tossed his traveling cloak on her bed; his riding boots were still splattered with mud.  He knelt beside her and held out his hands.  "Arm, please."  
  
Clariel rolled the sleeve back and extended what remained of her left arm.  He made a thoughtful sound as he carefully examined the stump; it was smooth and painless, cutting off inches below her elbow...as though she'd simply been born without her left hand.  Solas had at least given her that courtesy.   
  
Three-Eyes took out his battered leather journal and began writing down measurements: her right arm, her left, across her shoulders and back, the length and circumference of each finger.  Clariel took a moment to enjoy the relative peace and quiet after the chaos of the last few days.  The Orlesian master didn't look at her with pity, or alarm, or any emotion at all.  He examined her arm the same way he looked at any piece of work: with a careful, thoughtful precision that calmed her more than anyone else's words had done.  
  
"Sit up straight," he said.  "And don't move.  A mechanical replacement will need to fit as exactly as possible."  Her old master's eyes flickered from the belt of throwing knives resting in her lap, and up to the holes in the fine gilded paneling on the opposite wall.  
  
She gave a soft huff, but set the knives aside with her good hand.  "I need to practice," she said.  "I don't suppose I'll ever draw a bow again."  
  
She tried to sound calm, matter-of-fact, but the tremor in her voice gave it away.  Whether it was the first practice bow from her tenth birthday or the lyrium-infused marvel she'd helped craft just months ago, she'd never been without one until now.  It made her feel vulnerable, naked, even while surrounded by her concerned friends.  
  
Three-Eyes didn't look at her, but she could have sworn she saw his face soften.  "Never say never, maker."  And he extended his journal to her.  
  
Clariel's jaw dropped.  There on the page, in her teacher's neat, cramped writing, were not one but three different rough sketches for a replacement hand.  One with fingers that opened and closed.  One with a dizzying array of attachments for her artificer's tools.  And one that looked like--  
  
"It will never have the range or impact of your longbow," said Three-Eyes, and now he was definitely smiling.  "But be quick on the trigger, and you can still fill your enemies with daylight."  
  
The arm-mounted crossbow looked elegant, almost delicate on the piece of paper.  Patterns of black and white feathers graced the limb, and etched vines curled around the attachment to her arm.  But even in this rough form, she could see that Three-Eyes had swallowed his pride and used principles of Bianca's construction, allowing the device to deliver small bolts at a much faster rate.  Attached to the crossbow was a short but wicked-looking curved hook.  
  
She stared from him to the designs, searching for words, but he spared her the trouble as he took the book back.  "I will draw up copies for you and Dagna.  I do expect improvement on my hurried sketches."  
  
Clariel jumped to her feet, all tiredness forgotten, and Three-Eyes chuckled softly.  "Quick to the forge.  Good.  The sooner you have a replacement, the better your mind and body will adjust."  
  
She began to pull on her jacket and boots one-handed, and unlike everyone else, he did not hover or try to help.  He put away his own tools and waited patiently by the door; occasionally, she heard the purposeful scratching of his quill on the page.   When she was finally ready, she looked from him to her empty left sleeve, trying to imagine a metal hand poking out the end.  It still didn't seem real, even when she gripped the end of the sleeve and tied it up.  She felt like her fingers should meet flesh instead of cloth and air.  Like an echo of her hand should still be there.

"Have you ever..." she began uncertainly, not sure how to put her thoughts into words.

But Three-Eyes immediately understood.  "Have I ever replicated the Maker's work?" he said quietly.  "No, and I never shall.  But we are makers in our own right, you and I.  We don't need to follow His design."  
  
That was what she needed to hear, worth more than a thousand polite condolences.  "Dagna's still at Skyhold," she said, "but there's a decent foundry on the other side of the palace."  
  
"Then why are we still here?  After you," he said, bowing her out of the room.

* * *

 _She dreams that night of a river from her childhood.  Tonight, it seems to stretch the length and breadth of the Fade itself.  It takes her a moment to come to herself, but when she flexes the undamaged fingers of her left hand, she knows this isn't real.  She settles herself down on the bank, unwilling to venture further without the protection of the Anchor.  The water is oddly silent, though it runs swift and deep._  
  
_And then she sees him on the other side.  The blue-eyed wolf, watching, so still he might have been a statue.  Her heart freezes in her throat, and she slowly gets to her feet._

 _"Don't go!" she tries to call, but it comes out as a whisper.  Yet to her surprise, he takes a step toward her, emerging from the shadow of the trees._   _His sorrowful eyes linger on the left hand that no longer exists in the waking world._  
  
_"It's ok," she tells him, trying for a smile.  "I'm working on it.  It'll just take time and patience."_  
  
_He doesn't speak.  He doesn't even seem to breathe.  But she knows he can hear her, because his ears turn in her direction.  His eyes drift from her hand to her face, and where she thought there would be anger or sorrow or bitterness, she can only find sympathy for the great white wolf, all alone across an endless expanse of rushing water._  
  
_"You can come back whenever you need me," she says, and now he flinches as if she'd raised a weapon to him.  Now he begins to turn back into the distant black trees, though his eyes are still fixed on her.  She takes a step off the bank to follow, and immediately sinks to her knees in a relentless icy current._  
  
_She stretches her hand out to him, even as he disappears into darkness, even as the cold water pulls her back to the waking world._  
  
_"Ar lath ma, Solas."_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and reviewing, as always. I'm honestly not sure if this series of fics will make sense to anybody but me. But I was very inspired by the epilogue slide of Lavellan with a crossbow arm: http://40.media.tumblr.com/f1876c82cb140a05093348aebc272c73/tumblr_nufbd7qAr01rrrleuo9_1280.jpg (from Matt Rhodes' tumblr)
> 
> My Lavellan is an artificer, and what Three-Eyes said about them being makers in their own right really resonated with me. Also I needed to work out some Solas feels :)


	2. Dagna

_This time, it's fire that parts them.  She stands on the burning ramparts of Adamant Fortress, and the courtyard below is a yawning gulf of flame.  She sees the man's tall outline rather than the wolf's, flickering through the smoke and ash.  The screams and wails of a keep under siege press in all around her._  
  
_It might be a dream, but the heat is still terrible, and the smoke still burns her lungs as she tries to approach.  She can barely see him at all; he wavers at the edge of her blurred vision, a specter that might not even be real._  
  
_Yet somehow, she knows it isn't a demon.  She knows him too well to be fooled by such things.  Burning pitch crashes from the sky and explodes between them, but she steps into the flames regardless.  She ignores the agony, forcing her blistering feet to move; in dreams, she can keep walking even when her skin burns away and her bones turn to ash._

 _"Please, ma sa'lath," she calls to him over the crash of ballistae and the roar of armies.  "You know it doesn't have to be this way!"_  
  
_The moment the words are out of her mouth, the fortress empties.  The sky grows still.  The din quiets.  The fires that separated them dim into nothingness, and he is gone, leaving her alone in the hollow shell of Adamant._

* * *

  
Clariel woke in a tangle of smothering blankets.  She tried to throw them off with her left hand, and only succeeded in banging her arm against the rough stone wall.  The sharp jolt of pain brought her to her senses as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.  The dying embers of the forge.  The lyrium blue glow peeking through the cracks of Dagna's toolbox.  She tangled her fingers in her hair, taking deep gulps of the cool air in the Undercroft.  
  
She couldn't tell herself it was just a dream; her dreams had been more than that for a while now.  She wrapped her trembling arm around her knees, hugging them to her chest.  The ache that always flared up when she saw him stubbornly refused to ebb away.  She could  _feel_  his presence in the Fade, as clearly as if he were standing beside her.  And without the Anchor, she no longer had any defenses of her own in the Fade, nor any means to seek him out.  
  
A light flared from the doorway, and Dagna's silhouette appeared on the steps with a lamp in one hand, and something else balanced in the other.  Clariel couldn't make out her expression, but Dagna hurried to her side, helping her pull away the sheets.  
  
"You ok?" she whispered.  "I went upstairs for a midnight snack."    
  
"I'm--"  
  
She tried to say "fine," but the word stuck in her throat.  Dagna quickly set down a plate of dinner rolls and turned up the lamp, enough for them to see each other.  Clariel heard the distinct gurgle of water being poured into a glass.   
  
"Here.  Drink the lot."  
  
"Thanks."  She took two huge gulps, and the pounding in her chest eased.  "Where's the hand?"  
  
"I was adding some upgrades after you went to sleep.  It's over there."  Dagna pointed toward Master Harritt's old workbench.  
  
"Oh no.  You didn't.  _Tell_  me you didn't."  
  
"Sera is full of great ideas," said Dagna with a grin.  "But a giant middle finger isn't one of them."   
  
Clariel's laugh came out more like a cough.  She pushed herself out of bed and picked up Dagna's lamp.  Her hand was still trembling, sending a waver through the bright orange flame.  Dagna looked from her to the workbench, her expression unusually serious.  
  
"I'm all for burning the midnight oil, Lavellan.  But...look, even I can tell you're not ok."  
  
She didn't reply, heading for the workbench instead.  The lamplight danced over a gleaming silverite hand, delicately etched with a pattern of bird wings.  It lay in the middle of the table, detached from its shoulder harness.  Clariel picked it up with her good hand, felt the warm hum of magic as the metal responded to her touch.  She turned it over, palm up, and saw Dagna's upgrade--a circle of lightning embedded in the palm.  It was quiescent for now, but she recognized it as a weapon of last resort.  Dagna had been trying to get it to work for over a week now.  
  
"Hey."  Dagna tugged it out of her grasp.  "Don't activate it--it might fry you too."  
  
Clariel sat down heavily and dropped her head into her hand.  
  
"I don't know what to say, Dagna," she whispered, and now she had to fight back the tightness in her throat.  "I don't even know where to begin.  So...I work.  At least here--" She had to stop and take a steadying breath.  "At least here, _I_ decide what happens to me."  
  
Dagna didn't say anything for a long moment.  Then she picked up the shoulder harness and attached a different prosthetic.  This one was plain, utilitarian, a pair of veridium hooks with places to insert her modified artificer's tools.  
  
"Scoot over and buckle up," said Dagna, handing over the harness.  She lit two of the large tapers against the wall and picked up her own tools.  "Are we still on for the grappling hook?"  Her big, dark eyes gleamed with ill-contained excitement.

Again, Clariel couldn't help but smile.  Her arcanist's enthusiasm was nothing short of infectious.  

"Definitely."  She slipped the harness over her left arm and strapped it into place.  This too was enchanted; as the leather wrapped around bare skin, the runes Dagna had so painstakingly etched came to life.  It felt less like a device, and more like a living thing in its own right, complete with its own faint pulse as its magic waxed and waned.  Clariel gingerly flexed her upper arm, and the hooks came together with a soft click.  She opened them again and picked up the half-finished stock for her hand crossbow; the hooks closed around the wood like a vice, which she locked into position with a screw underneath.

It was slow, bitter work.  Refining the stock would have been second nature before, but now she had to relearn every impulse.  How to rotate the stock, how to hold herself so her left shoulder didn't tire, how to keep the knife from slipping with seven mismatched fingers instead of ten.  She fought the temptation to glance over at Dagna as the arcanist set a furious pace.  In time, she had to keep telling herself.  In time.

The sky was starting to turn pink when the door slammed open and a loud voice declared, "Are you still fiddling with that thing?  Why are my two favorite people both _daft loonies_?"

"Hi, Sera," said Clariel without turning around.  She carefully released the crossbow stock and began putting away her tools.  "If you need your 'widdle,' I won't keep her for much longer."

Dagna giggled.  "It sounds so much sillier coming out of your mouth."  She had jumped up from the bench to greet Sera.  

"Everything sounds daft when she says it all fancy-pants," scoffed Sera.  "At least come to breakfast.  The cook's complaining about having less work.  Imagine."

Clariel winced, her back still turned so Sera and Dagna wouldn't see.  She didn't like eating in the great hall any more, with its furniture mostly gone and only one lonely table.  Leaving behind the burden of the Inquisitor had been a huge relief.  But seeing all the people emptying out of Skyhold...

"Are you brooding again?  Do I have to hit you?"

Casting about for a way to shut Sera up, Clariel's gaze fell on her beautiful lyrium-reinforced longbow, which was hanging from the wall above the forge.  She hadn't touched it since emerging from the eluvian.  Before she could think twice about it, her feet had carried her across the Undercroft.  She picked up the bow and wordlessly held it out to Sera.

Sure enough, Sera stopped and goggled at her, mouth wide open before she closed it with a snap and shook her head.  "Oh no.  Not me.  I'm not fancy enough for the bloody Herald's bow."

"You know I hate that title," said Clariel.  "And don't be ridiculous.  I'm never going to use it again, and I don't want it to go to waste."

"That's not what I--"

"Listen, Sera.  Take it or I'll hit you."

Sera let out a loud snort and snatched the bow from her hands.  "Now  _that's_ more like it."  As Sera's fingers closed over the hilt, the bright blue lines flared to life.  Clariel remembered the hum under her hands, the way her arrows almost seemed to leap into flight.  She glanced at Dagna, who was regarding her with a very odd expression.

"It's ok," she mouthed to Dagna when Sera was occupied firing practice arrows into the waterfall.  And in that moment, watching her friend practically dance on the spot with glee, it really was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've also always been fascinated with artificial organs and limbs, and the rate at which they're evolving nowadays is extraordinary. The basic principles of Clariel's arm and harness come from real-life myoelectric prosthetics, which use electrodes to detect muscle movement and control the prosthesis. I just had Dagna substitute magic for electrodes. I wanted to give her something that's advanced for Thedas, but still plausible given the magic and technology potential of the setting. 
> 
> (I admit the crossbow might be a bit of a stretch, but come on. Crossbow arm!)


	3. Varric

Varric kept her busy during her visit, showing her all over Kirkwall--from her personal estate in Hightown to the endless mayhem of Lowtown.  He seemed fiercely determined that she should like Kirkwall, and she couldn't help but admire his love for his city.    
  
"We'll take you out to the harbor tomorrow, let you try out the key," he said over lunch in his office.  "I haven't given Bran a heart attack all week."  
  
"I don't remember being this horrible to _my_ advisors," said Clariel.  
  
"He's not my advisor, he's my doorman," said Varric with a dismissive wave of his hand.  "And I almost forgot.  I'm supposed to give you this."

He handed her an unusually thick envelope.  She opened it to find a letter, an updated schematic for Dagna's silverite hand, and a pair of flat rings made of light, silvery ceramic.  They felt smooth and cool in her hands, no matter how long she held them.  Like wind made solid, alive with thousands of tiny runes.  She shook the letter open and read:

_Lavellan,_

_Varric tells me you're not the Inquisitor any more, and that you don't have a left hand.  I can't do anything about the former, but I pulled some strings for these.  The half-wits trying to recreate Caridin's work never knew what they had.  Install one around the rune in your palm, and the other on the back of the hand.  They will insulate you against any feedback, and they're enchanted to suppress the electricity unless you turn the top ring once to the right.  Hit someone with the palm to stun, grab and squeeze to kill.  Have fun, and you're welcome._

_P.S. Send my regards to Dagna.  I'm turning this little beauty into a glove so I can use it too._

_P.P.S. Varric, stop reading other people's mail._

_-Bianca_

"Handy, isn't she?" said Varric in a would-be casual voice.  "Heh.   _Handy_."

"Varric, that was terrible."

They spent the afternoon in companionable silence.  Varric answered letters while Clariel worked on the silverite hand, carefully using her hooks to hold the delicate attachments in place.  There was a certain satisfaction in putting together the final pieces, as though the hand hadn't really been hers until now.

She heard Varric swear loudly when he reached the last letter in the stack.  "Shit.  It's from your old Keeper.  She says strange elves have arrived in Wycome.  She says--"  He sighed at the stricken look on Clariel's face.  "You're finally going back, aren't you?"

She forced down the sudden lump in her throat.  "I have to warn them, Varric.  The Inquisition helped the Wycome elves, but...I know many of my people still fear and dislike humans.  I don't want them to swell Solas's ranks."

"I'll help," he said with a grim smile.  He pushed aside his letters, and pulled a fresh stack of parchment toward himself.  "Your people fear the Wolf?  We'll play on that to keep them out of his grasp."

She stared at him, aghast.  "But...that's not the truth.  He's not the monster they think he is."

The dwarf's face hardened briefly, then he stood up and left his desk to sit beside her.  He picked up the prosthetic hand and helped her finish securing Bianca's rings into place; sparks of lightning swarmed toward the center of the palm before they vanished into the metal.

"Ginger, the truth is that he's going to kill everyone.  You, me, our families--unless we stop him.  I'll leave it at that and let the elves draw their own conclusions.  Good enough?"

It wasn't exactly a lie, in the same way that Solas had never quite lied to her...and the thought made her sick inside.  But she knew Varric was right.  She was the Dread Wolf's heart, his love, and she'd borne his magic for years.  If she told the elves of Wycome everything--she could see the looks of horror and disbelief on her cousins' faces, the suspicious fear from the rest of her clan, and the sick feeling threatened to overwhelm her.

"I'm going to tell my family everything," she said firmly.  "My parents and Aunt Deshanna.  They need to know."

Varric gave a helpless sort of shrug.  "That's on you, then."  He returned to his desk and lifted his quill.  Then he slowly put it back down and took a deep breath, as though steeling himself to say the words.  

"You remember what I told you right after the Breach?  How you should run before your life became a tragedy?"  He downed the remainder of his glass in one gulp.  "You can still take my advice."

"I'd think you of all people would understand.  Giving up on someone is easy, but that doesn't make it right."  
  
"Bianca's a little nuts, I'll give you that," said Varric, raising his eyebrows.  "But last time I checked, _she_ wasn't out to destroy Thedas."  
  
"It's not about that." Clariel reached for the wolf jawbone necklace under her jacket, feeling its worn, smooth edges.  Solas's last gift to her, tucked into her hand before he disappeared through the eluvian.  

"I won't pretend it isn't painful.  Loving Solas is...the most painful thing I've ever done."  She took a deep breath.  "But I would feel a thousand times worse if I had a chance to save him...and I walked away instead."  
  
Varric didn't seem to have an immediate answer for this.  Then he looked out the window, where the scar of the Breach was still visible.  "The kid's out there," he said, and he sounded like he was trying to convince himself as well as her.  "He can help Chuckles.  It doesn't have to be you."  
  
"Yes, it does."  She stood up and started to pace his office.  "The Evanuris labeled him a dangerous traitor.  His followers turned on him after seeing what he'd done.  The Dalish think he's a monster.   _I_  have to believe in him, Varric."  
  
He opened his mouth, then shook his head and took a long drink straight from the bottle.  "Andraste's asscheeks, how do you elves all get so stubborn?"  
  
Clariel laughed as she picked up the silverite hand and attached it to her arm; instead of the warmth of her hooks or the gentle hum of the crossbow, a sharp frisson of electricity ran along her skin.  She carefully turned the ceramic ring on the back of her hand; with an audible snap, lightning came alive across her palm, filling the viscount's office with the smell of ozone.

"Don't know," she said.  "Maybe it comes with the pointed ears."

* * *

_She knows it's just a dream, but she misses Skyhold so badly.  She can't help indulging herself, walking all of her old haunts.  The ramparts, with the Inquisition's banners fluttering high in the morning breeze.  The garden in riotous bloom.  And she isn't surprised when she steps out into the courtyard and sees the white wolf standing beyond the gates, closer than he's ever been._  
  
_Tarasyl'an Te'las calls as loudly to him as it does to her._  
  
_She hasn't even taken a step forward when he turns tail and flees, sprinting out the gates of Skyhold and out of sight.  She stares, too stunned to follow--and then she feels the deathly silence of winter fall over her like a shroud._ _Her breath mists in the air.  The grass under her feet turns white with frost.  And she hears it now, a dragon's roar that she knows in her very bones, though she has only heard it once before._  
  
_Hakkon Wintersbreath circles the sky above her, a pure white wyrm of with eyes of blue.  He bellows once more before landing in the courtyard, leaving deep gouges in the earth mere feet from where she stands._  
  
_She isn't sure how to address the Avvar god when he is no longer her enemy, not even the same entity she encountered in the flesh.  But courtesy seems prudent, especially in the Fade.  He no longer burns with the mindless fury that she remembers, and waits patiently for her to approach._

_Her feet crunch over the snow that falls from his wings.  "Andaran atish’an, Hakkon Wintersbreath,” she says with a slight bow.  The dragon rears, and frost cracks off his scales in great sheets, dagger-sharp ice landing all around her.  She doesn’t move. She has endured far worse dreams than this._

_“Inquisitor First-thaw," he says in a voice that shakes her very bones._ _“You helped rebirth me.  I do not like being indebted to a mortal."_

_She shivers but says nothing, steeling herself to look into the dragon's cold, narrow eyes._

_"The one who follows you is greater and older than I.  But he does not wish to be seen.  I will drive him away when you dream, and so my debt is paid."_

_The frozen air makes her cough, but she takes a breath anyway and gathers her courage._

_"No."_

_She's stumbling over her words now, trying to get them all out before Hakkon has a chance to stop her.  "I don't want him gone.  He and I have unfinished business.  If you would honor your debt to me, help me brave the Fade on my own--without the Anchor.  And I will consider it paid."_

_Hakkon lowers his great head until his snout is inches from her face, and for one heart-stopping moment, she's sure he's about to strike.  She forces herself to look into his enormous glittering maw, wondering how those teeth would feel around her neck._ _Then the dragon breathes, a whisper of winter that swirls over and around her like a second skin._

_"It is done.  You are kin to me as you are to the Avvar, and all those who bow to me will bow to you."_

_She opens her mouth to thank him, question him, say anything at all.  But he takes flight in a great rush of wings, stealing all the air from her lungs.  She watches him soar up into the sky for hours, days, until he disappears into the beyond._

_There is no visible mark like the Anchor, no obvious sign of Hakkon’s gift.  Yet she no longer feels the lingering cold, even when she kneels to bury her fingers in the snow.  She can sense them waiting outside Skyhold's protective walls: Terror, Despair, and Desire who would prey upon her.  But when she steps into the raw Fade, the silence of winter descends in her wake, and the nightmares slink away into oblivion._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, I loved the Avvar and wanted to do more with Hakkon. Also, a non-mage Lavellan has no capability in the Fade without the Anchor, apart from being able to befriend spirits. I wanted to show how powerful a connection with a spirit could really be.
> 
> The finished version of the lightning hand was inspired by the electroshock gloves in The Legend of Korra. It's not fully articulated (ie; it can only open and close), but I still think it's pretty cool :)


	4. Clariel

Tears ran down her mother's white and shaking face as Clariel finished her story, her voice hoarse from speaking into the stillness.  She had told them everything that seemed relevant: the Evanuris and the true history of the ancient elves, Fen'Harel's rebellion, the eluvian network, the _vallaslin_...and of course, her own story.  How their only daughter, scout and guide to the Dalish, had come to love the Dread Wolf who now threatened their destruction.  Her mother clutched a leather-bound journal, the more detailed record of everything that she'd said.  It lay in her lap, the buckles still unopened, as though she could somehow contain the terrible truths inside.

Her father seemed beyond crying, unable to look at her, staring instead at her metal hand.  Her Aunt Deshanna, Keeper for the clan, sat thoughtful and silent, one arm around each of Clariel's parents.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of silence punctuated by her mother's hiccups, Deshanna spoke.  "Thank you for bringing the gift of truth,  _da'len_.  I can only guess how much it must have cost you."  Her hands shook, but her voice was quite steady and calm.

Clariel didn't feel like a child any more.  She hadn't been a child since thwarting destiny and seizing the Anchor from Corypheus.  But she appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.

"What would you have us do with this information?" asked Deshanna when Clariel said nothing.

"I don't know," she admitted.  "I've only been in Wycome for a few days.  I suppose..."  She looked down from the lonely cliff on which they sat, at the campfires starting to burn in the Dalish encampment below.  Somewhere down there, her cousins were probably cooking their evening meal, completely ignorant of what was brewing all around them.  "I suppose I leave that judgment to you.  I just want the elves to be safe and free from Fen'Harel's clutches."

"That is easier said than done.  The Inquisition helped defend us, but there are many who might heed the Dread Wolf's call to a new world--even at the cost of their own lives."

"Haven't you been listening?" said Clariel, more sharply than she intended.  "He doesn't want a better world for us.  He wants to bring back the old world, and he's prepared to destroy all of us to do it!"

"I heard,  _da'len,_ " said Deshanna calmly.  "And I believe you.  It is now my task to make sure your message is heard by more than us three.  As I said in my letter to your friend Varric, there are already agents of the Wolf among us.  We must be swift--and careful."

Clariel let out her breath in a sigh, both mollified and slightly ashamed of her outburst.  "Aunt Deshanna," she began slowly, "I can't begin to--"

"We are the ones who should be thanking you."  She smiled slightly as she stood, resting her hand on Clariel's shoulder.  "Now, then.  You have something else for me?" _  
_

Clariel nodded and pulled the thick stack of Varric's pamphlets out of her traveling bag, handing a sheet to her aunt to read.  This version was much less detailed, containing only the essentials of the Dread Wolf's threat.  No mention of his complicated history, or even of her own involvement beyond opposing him.  Deshanna raised her eyebrows as she scanned the page, but otherwise made no comment.  She folded it up, tucked it into her pocket, and held out her hand for the rest of the stack.  She also took the leather journal from Clariel's mother, tucking that under her arm.

"It will have to be tonight, I think," she said softly.  "While everyone is gathered outside the city walls, and we are less at risk of infiltration.  If you like, you can stay here while I deliver your warning."

A warm rush of relief swept over Clariel and she nodded, watching her old Keeper walk back down the hill toward the rest of the clan.  She chanced a look at her parents; neither of them had moved, or said anything.  They seemed lost in their own world, one where she was a complete stranger to them.  She blinked back the prickling in her eyes as she also got to her feet, brushing the dirt off her stiff legs.

"Well," she said in a tiny voice.  "I suppose I'll just--"

She never finished the sentence.  Her mother reached up, seized her hand, and pulled her back down into a fierce hug.

"I am so, so proud of you," she whispered.

"I--but--"

"You're not the girl who we sent off to the Conclave," she said through her tears.  She let go, and Clariel saw she was smiling.  Crying, and smiling at the same time.  "You are the kindest, wisest, strongest daughter I could have hoped for, and I love you,  _da'assan_."

 _Da'assan._  Little arrow, her childhood nickname.  Her mother's hands traced the empty space where Clariel's  _vallaslin_ had been, gentle and soothing as they had been when she was ten.

"You're not angry with me?" she asked, hardly daring to believe it.

Her father's head snapped up, as though he'd just realized she was sitting a few feet from him.  "Never.  But I wish it wasn't you," he said roughly.  "I wish my daughter didn't have to bear this burden.  I wish you could just come home for good."  He drew a deep, shaky breath, and he suddenly looked about a decade older than she remembered.

"Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?" she asked, quoting one of his favorite stories back to him.

He gave a broken sort of chuckle, and laced his fingers through hers.  "Always with the clever rejoinder," he said softly.  "I suppose we'll find out soon enough."

Then she finally let them fall, the tears that she'd been holding back from everyone else.  Let her parents hold her, let them share the illusion that she was still the little girl they could protect from the Wolf.  But it only lasted for a few minutes; soon enough, the world and all its weight came rushing back, and she gently disentangled herself from her mother's arms.

"I've got to go back to the city tonight," she said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.  "I need to meet a friend.  If you want, we can talk more tomorrow morning."

"I'd like that," said her mother.  "Go on.  You have a world to save."

"Again."  They shared a small smile, and Clariel gave each of them one final hug before hurrying down the path toward the city proper.  As she walked, she swapped the silverite hand for the small crossbow slung across her hip, and pulled her cloak up to hide her face.

She'd barely made it beyond Wycome's gates when a red-tipped arrow struck the cobbles in front of her; the guards were conveniently looking the other way at a drunken bar brawl that had spilled out into the street.  Clariel heard a stream of curses that sounded suspiciously like Skinner and Rocky before another arrow nearly clipped her ear.  She looked up to see Sera frantically waving to her from the opposite rooftop.

After one more glance at the guards, Clariel took aim and fired, sending her grappling hook spinning around the top of the chimney.  Sera helped her climb, mouthing "Hurry up!" the whole way.

"You try climbing with just one arm," said Clariel when she was finally kneeling next to Sera on the roof.  She reeled in the grappling hook, staring down into what could only be described as utter mayhem.  "What are the Chargers doing here?"

"Being a distraction for you, dummy," said Sera with a grin.  She tossed Clariel a scrap of red cloth to cover the rest of her face.  "You're still hot shit.  Don't want anyone recognizing you.  Now come on."

Sera led her across the rooftops toward the alienage; they could just make out the top branches of the  _vhenadahl_ , covered in red and white ribbons.  She whispered out of the corner of her mouth to Clariel as they moved.  "Tip from a friend about some nob who got here two nights ago.  He's got those face things, but none of the Dalish seem to know him.  Keeps circling the alienage, like he's casing the place."

"Do you think he's looking for someone in particular?" asked Clariel.

"It's not that big an alienage.  More likely, he wants suckers who will listen to Solas."

Sera stopped so suddenly that Clariel almost ran right into her.  She caught herself on the chimney, then hastily backpedaled out of the black smoke pouring out from below.  They were on the roof of a small, grubby forge just outside the alienage walls; she could hear the smith cursing at his apprentice below.

"You good with this?" asked Sera, and there wasn't any hint of a smile on her face now.  "Fighting against him?"

Clariel wrapped the cloth over her nose and mouth.  "I'm going to  _save_ him," she said fiercely.  "But until I do, I'm going to be a bigger pain in his ass than the Evanuris ever were."

Sera's eyes lit up, and together the two elves edged their way along the rooftop.  They dropped over the walls of the alienage, silent as shadows, back to back.

* * *

_The arm at her left is...strange in the Fade.  There's simply no other word to describe it.  It seamlessly transitions from bow to hooks to lightning gauntlet at her whim.  It requires no dials or harness, only her will to operate.  In some ways, it makes the physical reality easier; the more she uses it in dreams, the more it feels like part of her body again.  She amuses herself for a few minutes each night, doing all the things she can't in the waking world.  Using the grappling hook to leap between trees, the silverite hand to lift herself up mountains.  And then, she searches._

_Despite her best efforts, Solas doesn't appear for several nights, and she finds herself wondering if Hakkon really did dissuade him.  But on the second week of her stay in Wycome, the white wolf is waiting for her.  Curled before an eluvian, encircled in a deep ring of purple flame.  He stands up when he catches sight of her, and for one horrible moment, she wonders if his power extends to reading her thoughts in the Fade.  If he's found out about the waylaid agent._

_She pushes the thought aside and comes to a halt at the very edge of the circle.  She's not here for his tools.  She's here for him._  
  
_"Do you remember when we first met?" she asks.  His tail twitches, and she takes that as her cue to keep talking.  "I was so frightened.  So sure I was about to die.  And then you took my hand...and everything felt right.  You saved me, Solas."_  
  
_The jawbone necklace is in her hand, the lifeline that binds them together.  "You needed me to stop Corypheus then.  But if you mean for me to die with all the others, why save me again?" she asks, knowing the answer all along.  "Why didn't you just let me go?"_  
  
_He knows the answer too, for as the wolf changes to the man and walks through the eluvian, she can see his shoulders begin to shake.  She calls his name just before he disappears, and sees him hesitate for a heartbeat on the threshold._

_She gives chase this time, heedless of the licking purple flames.  Hakkon's protection holds firm against them.  But by the time she reaches the eluvian, the mirror's surface is already dim.  She leans her forehead against the cold and unyielding glass, hoping against all odds that he's still listening._

_"I will never forget you, ma sa'lath," she whispers.  "Even if you forget yourself."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got a bit rambly, but I had a lot to work out after Trespasser, so thank you for taking an interest :) With any luck, DA4 will be as good or better than Inquisition, and we'll finally get some closure for Lavellan and her Dread Wolf.
> 
> Mad props to Patrick Weekes, Gareth David-Lloyd, and everyone at BioWare who brought Solas so beautifully to life.
> 
> Translation of elvhen phrases and words:  
> andaran atish’an: a formal elven greeting, literally "I dwell in this place, a place of peace."  
> ar lath ma: I love you  
> da'assan: little arrow  
> da'len: little child  
> Evanuris: the elvhen pantheon, powerful mages who came to be known to the Dalish as the "Creators"  
> Fen'Harel: the Dread Wolf  
> ma sa'lath: my one love  
> Tarasyl'an Te'las: Skyhold, or "the place where the sky was held back"  
> vhenadahl: the Tree of the People, planted at the center of an elven alienage  
> vallaslin: the facial tattoos of the Dalish; blood writing


End file.
